


a hole through the ice, drilled very purposefully

by WingsOfTime



Series: roza [8]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, MAJOR SPOILERS for season 5 icebrood saga, feat snargle goldclaw's literary masterpiece: commander of your heart, pre-drinking but with nectar, saucy excerpts but very mature like me the writer, we can't check up on laranthir after s5 :( so i'm doing it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23991415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: There are different kinds of love. Some quiet, some loud, some bound by duty and some only tied by passion. Some that drift in between categories, and some that can never quite be labeled.
Series: roza [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1252070
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	a hole through the ice, drilled very purposefully

**Author's Note:**

> small note: wasn't sure how sylvari "blush" due to conflicting source info in game, so just went the common fandom headcanon route and made it their glow, just for this fic

“I don’t understand why you don’t like this place! It’s so pretty.” Kasmeer’s gentle gaze roams over the multicoloured lights, pollen, and flora adorning the Grove, taking it all in with something akin to awe. Around them, sylvari socialize in light voices and tinkling laughter, fitting in so well with the landscape it is easy to imagine them as a race pulled from the beauty of nature itself, and not from the twisted mind of an Elder Dragon.

Except nature doesn’t laugh like sylvari do. Inanely, excessively, and for absolutely no reason. Roza can already feel himself getting a headache.

“It’s a gilded cage,” he mutters in reply. “Very gilded. Overly so, perhaps.”

“Roza.” Kasmeer’s tone is gently chiding, in the way one might talk to a flesh child who knew they were being unreasonable. “Come on, you can’t have always thought so. Don’t you like pretty things?”

“Not _too_ pretty,” he points out. “I have taste. There is beauty in minimality, Kas. Like a crimson droplet of blood spilled in the whitest of untouched snow—too much, and it would just be a ghastly mess.”

“You don’t even bleed, you weirdo,” Kasmeer says, but she leans into his arm with a smile, so he only returns the expression faintly.

They reach the Constellation Shelter soon enough, and after a brief inquiry are directed to a table underneath one of the tavern’s high stained leaf windows. At it sits Laranthir of the Wild, face neutral as he thumbs through a leather-bound book. He glances up as they approach, quirking a small smile. The edges of it are tinged with melancholy.

“Roza,” he greets. “Lady Kasmeer. Thank you both for coming to meet with me. It’s been…”

He glances away, exhaling roughly over his shoulder. “Well, it’s been a time. I appreciate the company.”

“Likewise.” Roza’s voice dips. He rests his hands on the table, then folds them over each other, unconcerned with the proper etiquette but not wanting to allow himself to fidget. “I could think of no one better to visit, after the recent news. How… have you been doing?”

It is odd to ask, unused as he is to being genuine in this sort of conversation. It’s partly why he asked Kasmeer to come with him. But he knows how to care about people, despite what some may say, and he knows how to grieve. It is strange, though, combining the two.

Laranthir heaves a long, quiet sigh, gaze drifting downwards. “There is a lot to think about,” he says. “A lot to consider. And a lot that may yet remain to be seen, I think. Keep me updated, if you would, about Jhavi’s progress.” He looks up, catching Roza’s eyes and holding them. “As a commander, keep me updated. As a friend… keep me company.”

“I would be glad to,” Roza replies sincerely.

“Roza asked me to accompany him, probably because he’s terrible at delicate conversation,” Kasmeer says, unabashedly exposing him. “But I wanted to check on you as well. A lot of lives have been lost because of Jormag and its followers. A lot of families, utterly ruined.” Her features crease in pain for a moment, then settle with determination. “But we’ll pay it back to secure a future for the ones that remain. I promise.”

Laranthir gives her a look that lies somewhere between equanimity and quiet resignation. “Yes,” he says. “I can second that sentiment.”

He is better at this than Roza is. He mostly only feels anger when he thinks about Almorra’s death— how unjust it was, how cowardly the villain. Cold anger, and an aching sense of loss. But loss is familiar to him by now. Loss is the shadows. Loss is the silent echo of Caithe’s footsteps, a reminder of what used to be. Loss is death and darkness and an unending cycle, if he lets it fester.

He won’t. “Not to change the subject too abruptly, but I’d rather we not linger on it lest we wallow. Do you mind sharing what you were reading?” He nods at Laranthir’s book, now angled just enough for the title to be hard to discern. Although Roza could swear that it looks familiar…

“Oh.” Laranthir looks surprised for a moment, but then he nods, takes a breath, and visibly casts his mind away. A mischievous smile, of all things, curls up his cheek. “The newest release from one of Tyria’s most… promising authors. I think it’s going to be a bestseller.”

He stands the book up so they can see the front cover in full. Roza’s suspicion is confirmed even before he reads the swirling ivory letters of the title, proudly declaring itself as _Commander of Your Heart_. Below it is an image of himself painted in dramatic contrast: eyelids lowered to smoulder, mouth barely curved in a smile of promise, one hand outstretched to beckon to the viewer. Next to him, Kasmeer makes a strangled noise. Roza groans, rolling his eyes skywards.

“How did you get your hands on that rubbish? It’s a woefully inaccurate portrayal of my character,” he complains. Not to mention terribly embarrassing. He isn’t _that_ melodramatic.

“For realism, yes. For a saucy love story, I think it’s just right.” Laranthir thumbs through the pages with suspicious speed and purpose. Clearing his throat, he reads dramatically:

“‘The Commander was always so cold. But one look from those orchid black eyes was all it took to make you _melt_.’”

“Oh, goddess,” says Kasmeer. She delicately covers her mouth with her fingers, not quite enough to hide her smile.

Roza sighs. “For a second there I thought you were going to read… never mind. You should throw that book out before you get anywhere further.”

“Is that a challenge, Commander?” Without looking up, Laranthir flips to another passage, this time several pages ahead. “Ah. The river scene. Ahem. ‘His lithe silver form rippled like the water itself as he swam. You couldn’t help but take in the vision before you, wondering if he could gyrate the same way… under more _carnal_ circumstances.’”

Someone nearby stifles a gasp. Roza sinks into his chair as Kasmeer cups both of her hands over her lower face, now beginning to turn red. He accuses, “Here I was giving you the benefit of the doubt. You read the whole thing, didn’t you? You brought this here just to torment me.”

“By your own admission, you read it too,” Laranthir replies. “Hold on, there’s an even better scene near the end, when you finally give into your… how does Goldclaw put it? ‘Vivacious young lust.’”

Kasmeer makes a small shrieking sound behind her hands. Roza frowns, looking at her more closely, and realizes that she’s _laughing_. His frown turns into a scowl. Darkly, he wonders if he is able to rot processed wood pulp. There’s never a better time to learn than the present.

“‘He has such tremendous power,’” Laranthir reads with absolutely no abashment, although he seems to sense Roza’s black stare and holds the book away protectively, “‘And yet… such vulnerability. It’s a heady combination.’ You’re so dreamy in here.”

Roza thinks he hears Kasmeer giggle. He glares. “I don’t know _where_ he got that idea from.”

“Of course, dear brother. These writers just spice things up for drama,” Laranthir soothes, but there is something in the corner of his tone that makes Roza narrow his eyes.

“‘“I am about to reveal to you my greatest secret,” the commander whispers huskily. “I’ve never…”’” Laranthir pauses dramatically, lowering his voice, “‘“I’ve never done this before.”’”

“Oh, Pale _Mother_.” Roza drags a hand down his face. Kasmeer explodes into a fit of bubbling laughter, suppressing it to the best of her ability but still unable to keep it from overpowering her. Roza stares at her helplessly, groaning when Laranthir puts the book down and joins in. He doesn’t have to look to know that he’s lighting up the area like a fir tree at Wintersday. He’d talked to that damned charr for a grand total of maybe _five minutes_! How did he—why did he— _Ugh._

“Oh, look at him!” Kasmeer laughs, which instantly makes the whole situation ten times worse. Roza tugs at his tunic in vain, trying to cover up more of his telltale lavender glow.

“Now, now, I think that’s enough. We shouldn’t tease.” Laranthir sounds amused, but controlled. Until he adds, “Remember: vulnerable, but tremendously powerful. We wouldn’t want to anger the beast.”

“I hate you both,” Roza says with feeling. His threatening tone is ruined by soft a pulse of purple.

Laranthir chuckles away the last of his mirth. “Alright, alright. Be glad at least, brother, that he refrained from writing about you and an actual other person . That would have been disastrous.”

Roza frowns. Someone else? “But who would he…?” he wonders out loud.

“Ah.” Laranthir quirks a smile. “Not an idea worth considering, I don’t think.”

“Yeah.” Kasmeer, now in control of herself, reaches out and squeezes his hand, her grip on his bark loose and warm. “I wouldn’t worry about who people see you with, Commander. In my experience, they don’t really want you to follow your heart. They just want to fool themselves into thinking they have some claim over you.”

Roza thinks of Marjory, clever and strong, and smiles. “I am glad you followed yours,” he says.

Kasmeer’s eyes crinkle. “I am too, Roza,” she says back.

Roza taps her hand lightly, then pulls his away. “Besides, no one’s ever really caught my eye. I can’t say it would be an accurate story.”

Laranthir lifts his chin. There is a faint question in his dark eyes, curious to be asked, but he does not voice it. “If anyone, he would probably pick Braham,” he says. “You wouldn’t believe how people can misconstrue conflict.”

Roza thinks back to his… delightful discovery of one of Snargle Goldclaw’s earlier works. “Oh, I think I can.”

“You and Braham? Gods, that’s just wrong.” Kasmeer wrinkles her nose. He makes an affirmatory noise.

“At least the illicit allure of cross-species relations saved it from being me and Canach.” Now _that’s_ an idea worth vomiting over.

“You and Canach are too similar, I think. Opposites attracting is a popular cliché,” Kasmeer muses.

Roza frowns. “Too similar? What do you mean?”

Kasmeer and Laranthir exchange glances. “Uh,” she says.

“Neither of you are… partial to the Grove,” Laranthir suggests, taking the reigns of the conversation.

“Alright,” Roza says suspiciously.

“… Or gentleness, or empathy, or humility, or any other traits our race is known for. Or being patient with new saplings, or even _knowing_ Ventari’s tenets, let alone practicing them, or revering the firstborn, or, really, participating in any aspect of sylvari culture. Besides perhaps the cursing.”

Roza sniffs. “Perhaps culture is what we make it to be.”

“I am told that you are banned from the nursery because the last time you were there you made five saplings cry,” says Laranthir.

“They would have cried eventually,” Roza mutters. “Maybe because they tried to talk to a flower and it didn’t talk back.”

“That’s awful,” says Kasmeer. Despite the statement, she looks as if she’s trying not to laugh again.

Roza sighs. “I’m going to get us some nectar. Try some, Kas. Getting sloshed makes this place—and its people—” He shoots Laranthir a pointed look, “a little more tolerable.”

“See?” Laranthir calls out as he gets up. Roza flips him a rude gesture. He hears a startled few gasps from the nearby patrons.

He returns with nearly a gold’s worth of nectar and a shot already downed. Kasmeer takes a tentative sip of her drink when he hands it to her, looks surprised, and takes a bigger one. He grins, the nectar tugging at the edges of his smile.

“Lady Kasmeer, it’s not fermented,” Laranthir murmurs. “Only Roza and I will be made fools from one glass too many. ”

“Honestly, that’s a relief. Someone has to mind you.” She gazes at Roza oddly, and he can't tell which of them she’s talking to. “You deserve a break from watching over other people.”

“Cheers to that,” Roza mutters, deciding it doesn’t matter, and takes a large draught from his cup.

“Before we render ourselves too inebriated for genuine sentiment, I would like to thank the both of you once more for coming to see me.” Laranthir speaks softly. “I cannot say there has ever been a time when I appreciated the company more.”

“You shouldn’t be alone,” Roza mumbles into his cup, and that is all.

“Of course you understand.” Laranthir gives a wan smile. “You were in a similar position once. Well… perhaps not _quite_ the same.”

Roza looks up at that, and sees that his eyes are kind and nonjudgmental. Still.

He knocks his cup back and downs the whole thing.

~*~

Caladbolg is back at his side, and he can feel it nudging at him, its influence gentle but pervasive. He has gotten used to it over the years. New but old, reformed, with he as its rightful bearer. It is a part of him, every bit as much as the magic he wields.

Still.

“Hello,” he says, nodding up at the statue stretching above him. “Sorry I haven’t been to visit in a while.”

The hard bark has no answer for him. He places a hand on it, at Trahearne’s shin, feeling its cool life.

“I’ve been busy,” Roza continues. “Jormag is active now, and…” He trails off.

Then he sighs, his fingers curling. “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” he mutters. “None of it matters. The Elder Dragons were never your calling, anyway. Some days, I barely even know why they’re mine.”

The wind blows. The leaves on the statue, large and more alive than their subject, rustle. A call? A warning?

Roza goes quiet and listens. After a minute, the wind dies. The night is alive, the statue’s bark is cold but thrumming with life, and he is of death and decay and has no place here in this sanctuary for the innocent.

“Do you ever think,” he says suddenly, “had we more time, if we could have been…”

He falls silent. After a long moment, he removes his hand.

“Ah,” he says, stepping back. “Never mind.”

He turns on his heel and walks away into the night, his footsteps swallowed by darkness and his thoughts unknown.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> please tell me what you think! <33
> 
> [song for this fic. yes it's this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g_WJ8gnWU7I)


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